Stand Guard
by boombangbing
Summary: What if Claire had grown up with the Petrellis' Nathan's better and worse for having Claire in his life, but he can't imagine it any other way now. Written for heroesfest over on livejournal. AU, strong language, violence and character death.


_"You can't do this, Nathan, it's not feasible."_

_"Not everything's facts and figures, Ma."_

_"You're so young, you don't understand anything about life yet."_

_"I'm old enough to join the Navy, drive a car, get married. Why shouldn't I do this?"_

_"Perhaps you are. It doesn't mean you're mature enough for this. You're throwing away your chances at a successful career, a successful relationship, a life. Please consider this."_

_"I've made up my mind, stop trying to manipulate me. Tell Bennet to go home, I'm not giving Claire up."_

_"You'll regret this." _

**1992**  
She was crying; she'd been crying since he'd brought her back to his apartment, and he just had no _idea _what to do. He could possibly have called his Ma, but he had the feeling that she wouldn't be receptive to him at that exact moment.

He didn't know what he could say to make it better; didn't know if there was anything that could make this particular situation better; didn't know, even, if she'd understand what he was saying. He vaguely recalled Peter jabbering on at her age, but that was ten years ago and he'd had far better thing to do, riding his bike, building fortes and spying on the neighbours. He only knew one thing for sure; that she wasn't going to be going to sleep, and neither was he.

"Mommy," she sniffled, tugging at the throw on the couch. "Where's Mommy?"

Nathan sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. "She's... gone."

Claire screwed her face up and cried some more. "Mommy!"

Jesus, how could he expect her to understand? This was so far out of his realm of experience that he may as well have been living in an alternate reality.

"I'm here Claire," he said, somewhat pathetically. And just who the hell was he? She didn't know him from Adam, and there was no reason why his presence she comfort her in any way.

Like often, he was right. She didn't seem to even hear him – just carried on wailing. He wondered if he was cut out for this, if maybe she would have been best off with Bennet, at least the guy had a wife, a home, a _job_. He wasn't some hopeless law student who'd been talked into this by his idealistic brother.

Peter. He paused, thinking about when he'd left for college. Peter had been upset, he was very attached to his big brother and he cried a little like Claire was now, though with some embarrassment – he'd been six whole years old after all. But the thing he remembered most was what Peter had given him – his favourite teddy bear, and although it had been kept firmly in the bottom of his suitcase, he'd held on to it and it was around somewhere.

"Stay here," he told her, though she was far too upset to even notice him

He checked through his half unpacked suitcases, and his wardrobe, and his drawers, eventually finding the bear under his bed. He took a brief moment to consider how the toy had got there but, coming up with nothing, he went back into the lounge, where Claire was still sat, face bright red, eyes shiny and nose running. He grabbed a tissue and crouched down in front of her, wiping her face as gently as he could, which was a trial in itself, considering how much she tried to fight him. When he was done, he sat next to her on the couch and held out the toy awkwardly. She looked at it, then squinted up at him suspiciously.

"Take it," he said.

She stuck her bottom lip out.

"Please?"

She took the worn teddy and stared at it hard for a couple of seconds. He was concerned she was going to throw it down and start that infernal bawling again, but she hugged it, smiling slightly.

"Claire," he said, and she finally took notice of him, this time more curious than suspicious. "I know you don't understand any of this, neither do I frankly, but I'm here for you and I'll always be here for you. I'm your father. I'm your... daddy."

"Daddy?" she repeated in a tiny voice.

"Yeah," he said, bending down to kiss her on the forehead.

_-- _

_Her picture is on their fridge always. It's faded and creased, the only one he has. She's all curly blonde hair and bright red lips; beautiful in a way he hadn't known before._

_"What was she like?" Claire asks, gazing up at the photograph, dreams of romantic movies in her head._

_He wraps his arms around her small shoulders. "She was beautiful. She was the most amazing person I've ever met. I loved her very much."_

_She was a one-night stand, a drunken bet – 'bet you can't get that waitress in bed'; he hadn't given her a second thought until that phonecall, but Claire doesn't need to know this._

_Because maybe she wasn't a product of her parents' love for each other, but she is a product of his love for her. She's a product of every good part of him, feelings and emotions he didn't know he was capable of until he held his girl in his arms._

_He'll be a better man for her. _

**2002**  
Her dad and Peter bickered as they pulled up in front of the house. Claire gawked at the place, it was i massive /I , bigger than Grandma and Grandpa's even, and she was going to be living here? It made her a little nervous, although at the time she couldn't have said why.

"Jeez, look at this place," Peter said, getting out of the car and opening the door for her. "People are certainly gonna think you're rich now, Nathan."

Her father scowled at Peter. "Why are you even here, Pete?"

He shrugged. "I dunno, you wanted another opinion or maybe you mentioned pizza...?" Her uncle grinned and winked at her. She smiled back at him, hoping he didn't notice her reticence.

"What do you think of the place, honey?" Nathan asked, looking hopeful. It was an unusual expression for him, he rarely seeked approval from others and she could sense that a lot of riding on what she would say in the next few seconds.

"It's... er... big," she began, before being cut off by the real estate agent.

"Mr Petrelli, shall I show you around?" She smiled prettily at him, and led the way to the front door, keys in hand.

It seemed even larger from the inside, '_like the TARDIS_' she heard Peter mutter, a little run down, maybe but nice, really nice. No, not 'nice', her English teacher always told the class to think of better adverbs, it was gorgeous, grand, like a palace from one of her old picture books. She should have liked it, she should have loved it.

She didn't.

The agent pointed out all the boring things, like under floor heating, room for an extension (wasn't it big enough already?) and original fittings and fixtures. Faucets, floorboards, funny little carvings on the walls. Peter rolled his eyes behind Nathan's back as her father made appreciative noises, and asked things like how good was the water pressure, and was it gas-fired or oil central heating? After an hour or so, her feet started to hurt so she and Peter waited the drawing room (_the drawing room_. She was used to living out of five rooms).

"Hey, look at it this way, you'll be able to get a dog."

She nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

Her uncle pushed back his growing bangs. She'd teased him about them at first, but she had to admit that he looked pretty damn cute. All her friends giggled over him when he picked her up from school, and told her how lucky she was. She was, as well, though not for the reasons they thought. Her family was dysfunctional, though you might not notice it from the outside, but when she was at home and her dad was arguing on the phone with someone while boiling spaghetti, and Peter would come over and blow all their dinner plans with a couple of boxes of pizza she felt completely safe – like nothing and no one could touch her in their closed off little world. Then their landlord had decided to sell the apartment and put all this change into motion.

Change wasn't something she was used to, her dad tried so hard to make things as stable as possible for her, probably because of what happened to her mother, she thought, but she was a big girl, she could handle it.

Eventually, the agent was done with her sales spiel and as they were driving home (not for much longer) he asked her again what she thought of the place.

"It's okay, I guess," she answered non-committally.

"It'll be a real home for us, Claire."

I already have a home, she thought, but just smiled in response.

--

_She knows she's changing, in every way, but she doesn't know how to stop it. Nathan sees some of it too, and he doesn't know how to stop it either. He doesn't have a solution, and maybe that's the problem; the turning point. Her father can no longer make everything right for her, and it hits her like a ton of bricks._

_She wasn't wanted. Her grandmother tells her that, her tone dripping with acid. She wasn't wanted, and she was going to be adopted. Her mother was a slut, a cheap Texas waitress, not the female lead in a soft focus romantic movie, and her father was an over-sexed drunken teenager._

_She doesn't cry. Petrelli's don't cry, and she is a Petrelli, whether Angela likes it or not, and it hardens her rather than breaks her, which, perhaps, is for the best, but it doesn't feel that way._

_'Where's that sweet little girl gone?' her father's eyes say when she screams at him and slams the door to her room. And she doesn't know, she just doesn't._

_She wishes she could heal this the way her skin does, but the bitterness remains. _

**2005**  
Cheerleading try-outs were murder at her school. It may have been private and Catholic and not co-ed (thank God for friends' brothers), and maybe they did have to sit through six hours of religious education a week, but none of that stopped the girls from ripping shreds off of each other whenever the other's back was turned.

She, however, had an advantage, and like any good Petrelli, she grasped it with both hands.

She trained harder, stayed later and flirted more than the other girls, and when her bones snapped after the backtuck, well they just healed right back up again. She certainly had the footballers vote, now all that was left was convincing Tracey Smith – the super bitch team captain – to pick her over all the other hopefuls.

The routine was pathetically easy, she breezed straight through it and when Tracey narrowed it down to four girls and made them do back flips and cartwheels, and Claire's ankle snapped on a misjudged landing, she didn't even cry out. It healed before anyone noticed the strange angle her foot was at, and she kept going.

Needless to say, she got the position.

She came back to an empty house. Again. There was a paper on the porch and she unfurled it as she dumped various items on her way to the kitchen. She sighed, reading the headline: **DA to prosecute known mobster** and lower down on the page: _Nathan Petrelli, son of Arthur Petrelli, is working with the district attorney's office to uncover evidence on the activities of mob boss Daniel Linderman. Linderman, of the Linderman Group based out of Las Vegas, is reported to have close personal ties with the Petrelli family._

"Shit," she muttered, dropping the paper on the table. She saw a lot of angry yelling in her future.

--

"Motherfucking bastards! You tell them to get the fuck off my lawn, or I will not be- Excuse me? I Excuse me/i They are trespassing on my property and I expect you to do something about it. Right now. Thank you very much." He slammed the phone back into the cradle. "Idiot."

Nathan was sitting at the kitchen table, papers spread out in front of him. There were reporters and photographers swarming around his front yard and if he heard one more shouted question about the case he might just go outside and beat one of them to death.

Claire walked into the room tentatively. "Hey, dad? Are you okay?"

"I'm just fine," he said, glancing up for a second. "If those vultures would just leave..."

"Okay... Hey, I got on the squad."

"That's nice." He continued scribbling notes as she poured out some juice and left. "Claire?"

She stopped at the door. "Yeah?"

"That's really wonderful, do you want to go out and celebrate?"

"Don't you have to do... that?" She waved a hand at the table.

"It can wait one night. Just remember to put a coat over your head when we leave."

--

It felt good going out with her dad again, it had been so long since either of them had had time to breathe. The prosecution against Linderman was huge, the biggest case he'd ever taken on, and she didn't want to get in the way of that, not to mention how much she was taking at school now – there wasn't one committee or extra credit class she wasn't taking.

She still hadn't told him about her little mutation. When she first discovered what she could do – she sliced her hand open while making a sandwich – she called Peter straight away and they talked it all through. She made him promise not to tell her dad, and he'd agreed to, reluctantly.

"Claire? Did you have a nice time?" her father asked on the drive home.

"Yeah, it was nice."

"It was," he agreed. "It's been too long since we've done something together."

She nodded, gazing out of the window into dark New York streets. Maybe she could tell him now. She hadn't felt close to him in so long, not since they'd moved out of the apartment, and they'd both changed, but someone had to make the first step.

"Hey," he said, touching her face briefly. "We used to be a team, right?"

She inclined her head towards him. "Yeah, we did." _Just say it, Claire_ , she thought to herself.

"Holy shit!" He spun the wheel, veering out of the way of an oncoming truck. Claire gripped the handle as the car swung in a wide arch, narrowly avoiding being ploughed straight into. The truck came again, speeding directly at them, and then...

"Dad!" she screamed, but he wasn't there. He wasn't in his seat. He wasn't in his seat where you generally sat if you were driving the damn car. She lunged over and grabbed the wheel, trying to wrest control of the vehicle but it was no use. The car slammed into the truck and rolled, over and over and over again.

Nathan ran and stumbled and fell at least twice, but he barely even felt it. His hands were cut and bloodied, and his best suit pants were torn to pieces as he pushed through the wreckage.

"Claire!" he screamed, and he could feel that he was one step away from complete hysteria.

The car looked like it was meant for the junk yard, and he could smell petrol. No, it couldn't be petrol, because that would mean something that he didn't – couldn't - accept. But it was dripping, he could hear it, smell it, see it, and then...

The explosion threw him back, flecks of glass and metal cut and burnt his skin, and he tried to get close, he really did, but the heat, it was overwhelming, all-encompassing. It felt like his skin and hair were being seared off. Blood mixed with his tears, and he knelt on the ground, hands over his head.

_Claire._

The fire grew hotter, he could feel it on the back of his neck. The heat wasn't unpleasant, however, more like warm hands. A lot like warm hands, actually. Through tear blurred eyes he saw her.

"C-claire?" His voice wavered and broke, and he reached out to touch her face. She had to be real, she just had to be.

Her small hands encircled his wrists and she smiled, showing exposed gums and teeth from where the skin across her jaw had been torn away. He watched, entranced, as new flesh grew and repaired itself.

"I'm a bit different, dad," she whispered.

"I - I flew," he stammered. He passed out sometime afterwards.

--

Peter was the first to get to the hospital, his heart pounding in his ears. He'd got the call from the police half an hour before, telling him that Nathan's car had been involved in an accident and that he should get down to the hospital right away. Within the space of twenty-five minutes he had managed to almost cause a four car pile-up, knock an old lady over on the way up to the ward and start an argument with the receptionist.

"Peter?" Claire stood in the waiting room, wrapped in a blanket, blood and soot smeared on her face. She looked so small.

He enveloped her in a hug, and she buried her head in his shoulder, sniffling quietly.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, stroking the back of her head.

"I am," she said. "I shouldn't be. The car blew up. I was in it."

He pushed her back slightly. "Your healing power?"

She nodded. "And Dad, he uh... He flew."

"Nathan...? Where is he, is he okay?"

Rubbing her face, she said, "He's got some injuries, he um... passed out. They won't let me see him."

They sat, not really speaking, for the next forty minutes. There was nothing worth saying.

"How did it happen?"

"It wasn't an accident," she replied gravely. "Someone tried to run us off the road."

Before Peter could answer, the nurse called out, "Miss Petrelli? You can see your father now."

--

They let Nathan leave that night – physically he was fine aside from some cuts and burns, but mentally, Claire wasn't so sure. He asked her if she was really alive at least three times after they brought him home, and Peter and Claire stayed up all night (which really was just the hours between four and seven, they'd been at the hospital so long) while Nathan slept, dead to the world.

The next couple of days could only really be described as the twilight zone; her dad slept all the time, which Peter told her was normal considering the shock and the painkillers he was on, and she stayed off school. Peter got some compassionate leave from university and her grandma came over to check on them. Neither she nor Peter told Angela the truth about the accident or their abilities, and the older woman didn't stay for long.

They discussed the crash, and what they were going to do about it.

"It must be have been Linderman," she said. "How many other mob bosses do we know?"

"Nathan didn't want to take the case at first, what with Dad and all," Peter said. "I talked him in to it."

Claire shrugged. "So did I. It's no one's fault but Linderman's. Question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"_You _aren't going to do anything."

Claire gave a start and turned to see her father. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

He kissed her on the top of her head. "Better. I guess these past couple of days haven't been a dream then?"

She shook her head.

"Shame."

Her father wouldn't talk about Linderman, other than to say that he was dropping the case. Claire and Peter both protested, but his mind was made up, and not even her pointing out that she couldn't be hurt would change it.

**Two weeks later. **  
Nathan knew what he had to do. Linderman was in Las Vegas, and soon, very soon, so would he. One good thing had come out of the accident, he'd discovered this little gift and although at first he'd wanted to pretend it didn't exist, he'd come to realise what an asset it could be. Claire had left that morning for school, and for once in a great while he'd been at home, taking advantage of some of those sick days he was owed, and when she got back, he'd still be there; she wouldn't even realise that he'd left the mansion at all.

All he had with him was a small backpack and the clothes he was standing in, which were unusual in themselves – an over-sized shirt, shorts and a baseball cap; the quintessential Vegas tourist.

There was a lunch being held in Linderman's honour at the Corinthian, for some large donation of money or other, and he didn't have an invitation. But he didn't need one.

--

Of course, the room where the lunch was being held was completely separate from the desperate people throwing their money away on the slot machines. The security guards were big, incredibly intimidating but not that bright, and Nathan did a wonderful impression of being drunk. It only took one slurred, 'hey you, yeah the ugly one' to get thrown out the back. And out the back there were windows leading to the kitchens. It was laughably easy if you thought it through and were going a little insane.

Today must have been his lucky day, because there he was; Linderman, standing there talking to a chef. Nathan crouched down behind a fridge, rifling through his bag and pulling out the ski mask, and the gun. It felt cold and smooth and heavy in his hand, it fitted perfectly in his grip. He wasn't scared. He waited.

The chef went on his break, and the waiters collected their plates and left. Nathan shifted, seeing his opportunity.

"You'd better come out, Nathan," Linderman said.

His breath caught in his throat, but he swallowed hard and stood up.

"I didn't think you had it in you." Linderman smiled, far too happily for someone with a gun trained on them.

"You tried to kill me and my daughter."

"I didn't mean for it to go that far. It was meant to be a... friendly reminder, but it was interesting wasn't it? A big explosion like that and you were both thrown clear? Miraculous, I'd say."

"You're like a cancer, Linderman."

He laughed. "It's funny you'd think that." He reached out and touched a withered flower in a pot on one of the shelves. The stem straightened up, turning green and new petals bloomed. "I'm exactly the opposite, and I'm exactly like you."

Nathan held the gun higher. "You are nothing like me."

"Oh? Do we not share a certain genetic mutation? Me and you and lovely little Claire? And let's not forget the less favoured son."

"What do you know about it?"

"More than you."

Nathan didn't move. He knew too much, knew more than Nathan did, that much was obvious, and what about Peter? This had to end. He pulled the trigger back.

"You could shoot me, Nathan, I have no doubt that you would. I see so much of your father in you."

He frowned. What game was Linderman playing? "You seem fairly calm about the whole situation."

"Well," Linderman said with a smile. "I have something that you might be interested in. I can give you certainty about your future. Ever thought about going into politics?"

"What if I have?"

"I may be able to help... get things rolling. You wouldn't have to worry about those mortgage repayments, or Claire's gift being discovered. Absolute certainty, Nathan, don't you want it?"

Nathan remained still. He could hear voices and footsteps outside, he didn't have any more time.

He never really made up his mind, the gun just sort of went off. That's all the certainty I need, he thought as he looked down at the body. By the time the guards burst back into the kitchen he was high above the city, and when the police arrived on the scene he was halfway over Kansas. He didn't give in to the shakes until he was back home, gun and clothes safely disposed of.

--

When Claire came home, her dad was sitting on the couch, watching the television intently.

"This is unusual," she said. "You hardly ever watch TV."

He jumped up and hugged her. It was kind of awkward, not the hugging – they were Italian after all – but an actual outward showing of emotion. It was very unlike him. Over his shoulder, she saw the news headline: **Daniel Linderman murdered in casino**. She wondered, as her dad held on to her, but she never mentioned it to anyone. She was glad the man was dead, and if someone she knew, maybe someone she was close to, did it then that only made the revenge that much sweeter.

**Five months later.**

**27th December. **

She shook her coat out as she got into the mansion. Snow floated around her, and yes, it was pretty, but it was also down the back of her neck and seeping into her boots. At least it was warm inside.

"Nice trip?" her dad called from somewhere within the depths of the mansion.

"Ugh," she replied, pulling her boots off as he appeared, wearing that god awful reindeer jumper that his cousin's kid had given him. "You know Christmas is over, right?"

"Two days ago, Claire. And I'm trying to feel the festive cheer. Humour me."

Damn, he was trying really hard to make her happy, to inject some happiness into this big empty mansion and she was just being a complete bitch.

"Sorry. It does make you look rather..."

He held up a finger. "Just stop that thought right there, okay?"

The door bell went. "Oh, saved by the bell!"

She turned and answered it, still dressed in her coat and one boot. At the door was an Indian man, and a rather intense looking guy in a truly tragic cardigan.

"May I speak to Mr Petrelli?" the Indian man said in a refined English accent.

--

She could feel waves of disapproval coming off her father. He'd try to tell Suresh and Gray to leave, but then words like 'self-propelled flight' and 'rapid cellular regeneration' had been mentioned, and he'd pulled them in, quickly checking that they hadn't been followed.

"How do you know about this?" he asked in his usual terse manner. Claire was almost glad to see it back.

"I've been doing research on it, Mr Petrelli. There are many out there like you, including Gabriel here." Suresh motioned to Gray who stopped staring intently at her and smiled, in a way she was sure he thought was friendly. It just raised his creepiness to a whole new level.

"I'm sorry, I think you're mistaken, Dr Suresh. There's nothing special about us."

Suresh frowned. "I read about the car crash you were involved in. It seems very unlikely that-"

"We were very lucky, Doctor. You might say it was a miracle, but it most certainly had nothing to do with our genes. So please, would you kindly leave?"

Suresh looked disappointed, but Gray just smiled wider. Claire wrapped her arms around herself, feeling goose pimples rise on her skin, and it wasn't because of the cold.

"As you wish, but please, just read this and if you change your mind, ring me, day or night."

He handed her dad a card and large book. She craned her head to read the title: _Activating Evolution. _

The two men left after that, and her father left to make a phone call. She picked the book up, it looked interesting.

--

She took the book with her when she said goodnight. Her dad was distracted again, and maybe he hadn't noticed the large book, because she was sure he wouldn't want her reading it if he had.

It really was fascinating, and if it didn't answer her questions, it at least addressed them and showed her that others had the exact same ideas.

_"One can imagine the ability to fly would enhance a person's chance of survival AND be attractive to the opposite sex."_

She laughed, thinking that maybe Dad might would like it after all. It was one in the morning when she finally turned her light out and went to sleep.

She didn't stay asleep for very long. In the darkness, a voice softly said, "He really was a very intelligent man. I almost feel bad."

She opened one eye just a little, and from the low lights in the hallway saw the silhouette of a man. It wasn't her father. Gripping her sheets tightly, she sat up.

"Who-?"

"Your ability is truly amazing, Claire. To be indestructible, it's really is a gift from God." That voice... Suddenly she knew who it was. "I want you to know, I'll cherish it. And with the flying, well it certainly is going to be fun."

He lifted a hand, and then there was just pain. White hot searing pain that filled her mind, pounded through her brain, and she couldn't even cry out. Gray's teeth seemed to glow in the darkness, and it was all she could see, all she could feel, all she could hear – white teeth, white pain, white noise. Her head buzzed and she could have been hanging upside down for all the difference it made to her. She knew she wasn't dead yet, because it couldn't hurt this much, God couldn't hate her this much.

_Pop!_ As quickly as it had come, it was gone, and she fell forward like a weight had been lifted from her. Still in that weird floaty place, she felt hands on her back, gripping her shoulders as she retched, anchoring her to life. She fell sideways and threw up on the floor, and there were still strong arms around her, looped around her waist and shoulders and she was so ridiculously glad of it because she was sure her legs had been amputated.

The buzzing subsided, and the sudden rush of conciousness felt like being drenched in cold water. Her eyes snapped open.

"-okay? Claire, say something!"

She was staring at what was left of the back of Gray's head. Bracing herself on the side of the bed, she twisted to see her father's anguished face.

"I'm okay, I'm fine."

He held her so tight that had she been a normal person she might have been concerned about breaking a rib or two. He easily lifted her to her feet, and they stood, staring down the prone figure.

"You killed him."

"Yes."

She didn't linger on how naturally he'd said it, or how fast he'd got to her. What was really important was what they were going to do next. When she asked him, he said, "We have to get rid of the body."

"What about the police? He tried to kill me!"

"And you don't have a scratch on you." He pushed her matted hair back and rubbed at where she'd been cut. He came away with bloody fingers, but he was right, her skin was completely smooth.

"At best," he continued. "They'll say I shot an unarmed intruder, and that'll draw attention to us, not to mention I might lose my job."

She couldn't not agree. The prospect of disposing of a dead body was hardly something she relished, but that was the reality of the situation.

"We can wrap him in my quilt," she said, glancing at the blood splattered thing. "It'll have to go anyway." A thought struck her. "What if someone heard the shot?"

"I had the silencer on. It sounds like a champagne cork popping at most."

They rolled him in the quilt, and Nathan really didn't want to traumatise Claire any further, but what they said about dead-weights was true. He couldn't possibly lift the man alone, and so she held one end as he manoeuvred the body downstairs.

"We can't dump him, that could lead back to us."

"Burning?" Claire offered.

He agreed. "But not tonight, that'll look suspicious. We'll wait till tomorrow, and we'll need some sort of cover." He glanced around. "The tree, we'll burn that tomorrow. If anyone asks, I'll just say that I couldn't be bothered to drive to the dump."

--

They took Gray out into the garage and left him, later adding Claire's bedroom rug and pyjamas to the pile. It was just starting to get light as she came back down, dressed in her fluffiest dressing gown, her hair limp and wet from the shower. You wouldn't know that anything had happened to her at all.

"We cannot tell anyone about this, you understand that right? Not your friends, not your grandmother-"

"Not Peter?"

He paused. "I think... I don't think he'd really understand. He's so naïve, he'll want to tell the cops."

She nodded, and he sat beside her, drawing her into a hug. "You know I'll sort this out, right?"

She leaned her head in. "I know you will, you always do." Their hands entwined, and maybe she can believe it, for a little bit longer at least.

A week later, a small article appeared in the Canarsie Courier, reporting how an Indian taxi driver, Chandra Suresh, was murdered in his cab. It mentioned nothing of his training as a geneticist, or his book. Just another forgotten person in a city that didn't care.

--

_He's a murderer. He did it for his family, but does that make it okay? There's still blood on his hands, and he'd promised himself he wouldn't become that person. Wouldn't become his father._

_There are hard edges to his daughter now. She doesn't cry over Gray's attack, she doesn't throw up again when they burn him (he does, several times, till he's left dry-wretching over the toilet) and there's something cold in her eyes. This was never what he wanted for her. That girl in Texas deserves more than this for her daughter. He'd used her, and now, in a way, he's using Claire. He can feel Meredith's ghost at his shoulder._

_The guilt's getting to him, and he doesn't know how long he can survive._

**2006.**  
Trouble comes in threes, they say, so perhaps Claire should have been more careful, but it had been months and everything was quiet. She got lazy.

She broke away from her friends as they left the school. They were going shopping, and she wanted to surprise her dad at work. He'd been working every hour God sent; she'd heard him on the phone to his accountant, and she knew money was short. She saw the metal bars on the windows, the state of the art security systems, her school fees and all the other things life threw at you, and it wasn't hard for her to work out where the money was going.

The memories were eating him up inside, it wasn't much better for her, and it was becoming obvious. She was fairly sure that her place on the squad was under threat, but she could honestly say that she didn't care.

"Miss Petrelli?" She glanced, seeing a man in glasses standing by a non-descript car.

"Yeah?"

"I'm a friend of your father, he wanted me to pick you up."

"I don't think so. I'm supposed to be having cheerleading practice right now, he doesn't expect me home for hours." As subtly as she could, she took a step backwards.

"Is that right?" The smile he gave her communicated no goodwill. She spun on her heel to flee, only to collide with a tall, black man. The last thing she remembered was the needle in her neck.

He got back home at ten, which was early for him nowadays, and she wasn't there. He yelled for her, and checked every room, checked the log of who'd been in and out on the security system, and she still wasn't there. His blood ran cold.

The phone call to Peter was mostly garbled nonsense, but his brother heard the panic and came straight over. Between them they rang all of her friends and one girl (he'd be forever grateful to her) said she'd seen Claire talking to guy in glasses after school. It wasn't a lot to go on, but he'd bet money on the fact that it had something to do with her gift. The police had been called, but they were less than helpful, asking if it was possible that she'd just gone somewhere with a boy. When the doorbell rung, he almost fell over himself to answer it. It was only his mother.

"I called her," Peter said. "I thought she should know."

"Okay," he said numbly. He should be out looking for her, he thought, but he didn't know where to start.

Vaguely he could hear his Ma and Peter talking in the background.

_"What happened?"_

_"Claire's missing. She was last seen with some guy. Nathan's not handling it well."_

_"I see that. What did this man look like?"_

_"Glasses, brown hair, I don't know. The girl said he was ordinary looking."_

_"Oh..." _

Nathan heard the note of unease in her mother's voice. "What do you know?"

"Excuse me?"

He stood up, and came to stand right in front of her in three long strides. "You know something, I can tell."

She didn't deny it. "Do you remember Bennet?"

How could he forget? Briefly, she told him about The Company, something he'd heard rumours of, but never delved any further into. They were interested in people with special powers.

"Like you two."

He took a double take. "You know about that?"

"I'm your mother."

She gave them an address in Texas, and there wasn't time to do anything else.

"I've been practising flying," Peter said.

"That should come in useful. What else can you do?"

--

The glasses loomed large in her vision as she came round. She tried to move but found it impossible, though in her groggy state she couldn't understand why.

"Don't worry, Claire, this will all be over soon."

The glasses solidified into a face, the same face she'd seen just hours before. She blinked away the sleep.

"Who are you?"

"I'm someone who's interested in you, Claire, in your abilities."

In her reduced state, the name just slipped out. "Gabriel."

"No, he's gone, your father took care of him." He smiled at the look of shock on her face. "Yeah, we know about that."

Tears rolled down her cheeks unbidden. "What are you going to do?"

"We just want to know the extent of your powers, that's all."

"I don't... have any powers."

He waved a finger. "You really shouldn't lie."

She begged him to let her go as he prepared another needle. He looked almost sorry for her, his eyes clouding over for a second. Taking it as her chance, she promised she wouldn't report him, would pay him money, would do anything he wanted. She misjudged, however, as his features turned hard and he tapped the syringe. It was just inches from her arm when a commotion outside drew his attention away. The door was ripped off its hinges.

"How did you do that?" a familiar voice asked.

"I met a woman in Las Vegas."

"Dad! Peter!" she screamed, straining against her bindings.

Her dad stepped through the doorway, holding a gun on the man with glasses. "Let her go."

"Nathan. It's nice to see you again."

"I really can't say the same thing, Bennet."

"I'm sure. You've raised a good daughter, if a little spoilt."

Peter pushed through. "I could snap you in half. Let her go."

"You're getting very confident, aren't you? Hardly the little boy I met all those years ago."

Peter shrugged. "We haven't got time to listen to your evil plan, okay?"

"I have no evil plan, if you want to hear about that you might be better advised to talk to your mother."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Nathan snapped, cocking his gun. "I don't want to kill you, I don't want my brother to kill you, but you need to let my daughter go right now otherwise that's going to be your only two options." He lowered his voice. "She could have been your daughter, Bennet, come on."

She could have cried, with relief this time, when Bennet loosened her restraints, but there wasn't time, pounding feet were already heading towards them.

"Go," Bennet whispered harshly, and they ran out into the corridor. The window at the end of the corridor was smashed in, glass littering the floor. Peter ran ahead and broke off some of the glass around the pane, the shards ripping into his palms as the skin knitted back together. Gaining purchase on the top, he hoisted himself out of the window.

Men with guns were gaining on them now, and her dad lifted her clean off the ground, fumbling to hold onto her and climb out of the window. He managed it just as she heard the first shots. They soured straight up into the air, and despite the situation she gasped in awe, gazing down at the rapidly shrinking world below.

--

They touched down in Midland, which really wasn't very far from Odessa, but Nathan couldn't go any further carrying Claire. He hopped around for a couple of seconds, scrabbling to remove his ruined shoes, as Peter dropped down beside him, looking just a little too graceful for Nathan's liking. He smiled as smoke rose from Peter's sneakers.

They were outside a diner, the _Burnt Toast Café_ , on an empty street.

"We should get some food, but..." He looked at Claire; she was still in her uniform, very distinctive and identifiable. "Peter, give her your sweater."

After she slipped it over her head - it reached down to her knees but at least she was covered now – they went into the diner, and took seats at the counter, but there was a party, so they didn't get served right away.

Nathan checked his wallet. "I only have cards."

"Me too," Peter said.

"My purse was in my bag."

"I pay," a voice to his right said. He turned to see a Japanese man in a party hat.

"Excuse me?"

"I see you fly, whoosh! And you!" He said, first pointing at Nathan then Peter.

"Oh... God," Nathan groaned.

"Don't worry! I also have power, teleportation!"

He nodded slowly, the last thing he needed was a crazy person latching on to them, especially one whose crazy claim would be true.

Peter, however, was intrigued. "Really?"

"Yes, watch!" He screwed his face up, and Nathan watched, prepared to be left unimpressed. A second later three plates appeared in front of them. He had to admit, it was quite impressive.

"Don't worry, I paid for it! I'm Hiro." He held his hand out.

"You're a hero?" Claire asked.

The man blushed. "No, my name – Hiro. But I'm going to save the world!"

"You are?" Peter said.

"I am. I go to future, New York, big explosion – boom! But I stop it."

Claire smiled. "I'm sure you will."

_This had never been the plan. His life had been clearly defined almost from year dot, and even Claire's arrival hadn't really derailed things that much. He would reach the top of his career, raise a family, maybe enter politics, live in a large house then retire and never have any money worries again._

_His life now is living from moment to moment, staying in run-down motels, not using his credit cards because they could be tracked by them, taking odd jobs to earn some money and keeping his tiny family safe. Because it's just him and Claire and Peter, and they're the only people in the world that he cares for._

_It wasn't the plan, but whenever Claire's eyes light up with laughter, and that darkness recedes, even for a minute, it's worth it._

_-- _

They were in the Dominican Republic when the bomb went off.

Claire wiped the sweat off her forehead as she watched the breaking news. There were customers that wanted serving, but they'd have to wait.

"Hiro," she whispered, glancing at Peter as he mixed drinks. He nodded, mouthing 'I know'. The older customers paid little attention to the TV, but the younger ones sat enraptured. She wasn't sure how much of the English they understood, and the subtitles lagged enough to make the viewing a confusing experience, but the images were universal,and she was glad her father was away looking for work. One woman in particular found it upsetting.

"Maya?" she said softly, laying a hand on her back. "Are you okay? Hey, don't cry."

Maya twisted away from her. "Leave me alone," she hissed, covering her face.

Behind them, someone fell to the ground, then another and another. Peter's eyes locked on hers as she straightened up. Save for the three of them, there was not one person left standing.

"You are – you are still alive?" Maya grasped her hand, and Claire looked back, into the black depths of the other woman's eyes.


End file.
